


Change | 12.12 Coda

by theheartchoice



Series: DeanCas Codas | Season 12 [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Caring Dean Winchester, Driving, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Motels, POV Sam Winchester on Castiel/Dean Winchester, Post-Episode: s12e12 Stuck In The Middle (With You), Sam Winchester Knows, Sleep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-17 10:04:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14186502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theheartchoice/pseuds/theheartchoice
Summary: After Castiel almost dies, Sam notices a change in his brother. And it is good.





	Change | 12.12 Coda

**Author's Note:**

> Post-episode coda for 12.12.

  Wally burned like St. Patrick’s Day. Something in that barnyard gasoline colored the flametips shamrock-green.

“He would’ve loved that,” Mary remarked from beside the pyre. “His mother was Irish. His family get together for a big thing, every year..”

She was gazing into the flames, lost to them, adrift in some private reverie.

Sam, who was tall and broad and officially two people in stature, stood with an arm loose around his mother, his other hand shoved deep in his jacket pocket to stave off the nightime winter chill. His eyes flitted to Dean, who was offering similar support to Cas.

Though his brother’s hold was more secure around the wounded Angel, pulling him in close to his side. And both Dean’s hands were put to use: one on the forearm nudging his torso, the other wrapped around, rubbing not untenderly over the bunched and ruined fabric of Castiel’s trenchcoat.

Dean leaned aside Castiel’s ear, murmuring something which was lost to Sam in the crackle of elm and sizzle of maple.

Sparks spit at the shadows from the brush skirting the platform as the structure engulfed itself—a blaze of green and orange, huffing out thick black smoke. The heat swayed on the winter breeze. Flames licked higher and higher into the starless sky, consuming and reaching beyond their grasp as they waved their goodbye.

Little else was said as their friend burned. Not that Wally was really a _friend_ —more an aquaintance. But he was a good guy, and a decent Hunter. One who had gotten caught up in the dime-a-dozen demon play the Winchesters had grown accustom to, but which they tended to forget was still so _alien_ to other Hunters.

Wally had agreed to help in order to learn, rather than just cut tail and run. And for that, he was brave.

They parted ways in the small hours, Mary saying she would pay a visit to Wally’s mother in the morning. Dean stole the driver’s seat of Castiel’s old Ford ute after he and Sam helped him into the passenger side.

Dean entrusted his little brother with the keys to the Impala, snarking through his exhaustion that if he didn’t treat her with the respect she deserved there would be hell to pay.

Sam, in his good graces, stifled a smile with a yawn and took the threat in his stride, remarking inwardly that he knew _damn well_ how much that car meant to Dean—to _both_ of them—and how anything that could take Dean (willingly) away from his _Baby_ was something _else_ worth respecting—something significant, something special.

Their family caravan rolled out of the chalky drive, pyre spent and demon bodies disappeared (assumedly) by Crowley. With sunrise a few hours away, and having been beaten and bloodied and built their own _Burning Man_ , Dean had called it: some much needed shut-eye at the motor inn before attempting the long road back to Lebanon.

It didn’t escape Sam’s attention how worried his brother was about their best friend. From acting as a human crutch in the ten steps from carpark to motel room, and again across the few feet of carpet to the bed, to how he insisted Cas let him burn those ragged clothes as he undressed him—and then _re_ -dressed him—in Dean’s _own_ sleepwear.

But not before dabbing a warm, damp washcloth over Castiel’s grimy skin, his temple and shoulders and stomach—those previously cracked and blackened abdominal muscles, which were presently taught, a healthy bronze hue, and void of any telltale scarring.

Dean also didn’t take _no_ for an answer over the sleeping arrangement: he settled Cas into _his_ bed with the intention of bunking on the couch. No biggie. Not that he would get a whole lot of sleep.

Sam suspected the events of the evening would weigh on his mind, and that even if he wanted to, even if he had a bed of his own, Dean’s conscience wouldn’t let him sleep. He’d be glancing over at Cas every five minutes to check he was still breathing, still there.

 

Sam was right.

He was right about most things when it came to his brother and his best friend—that is, the unspoken thing the two of them shared.

The very special, very powerful, utterly distracting, all-consuming, heart-felt, soul-deep thing. The thing that had prompted Castiel to speak certain weighty words back in that barn with his dying breath. The thing which, now, had Dean lying awake in the dark staring intermittently over at his sleeping Angel.

It wasn’t uncommon for Sam to rouse from sleep after a particularly gruelling hunt, one in which the loss outweighed the win. But it wasn’t usual for him to lose sleep over a big win like this.

Sure, they lost someone. But they also saved someone—or, he _was_ saved—someone close to both him and his brother. On top of that, words were spoken which had been, in Sam’s opinion, a long time coming. And Castiel couldn’t take them back any more than he could raise Wally from the dead, no matter how much Dean may have wanted him to.

Not that they were horrible words. But they were confronting.

Sam’s older brother was emotionally stunted, afterall. And dealing with complex, intense, intimate, one-on-one feelings—moreover for a guy, his best friend, and a freakin’ _Angel of the Lord_ —was not something he was likely prepared to deal with.

Sam sympathised with that.

He padded over to the armchair adjacent to his brother, who was now pointedly staring at the ceiling, the wall, the loose thread on his sleeve..

“..How’s he doin’?” Sam spoke softly, sinking into the old cushioned seat.

“What..?”

Despite the lack of lighting, Sam gave his best _C’mon-Dean-Really?_ face, and the shadows seemed to convey it, for his brother sighed and fidgted, his feet planting on the sofa and knees rising high. His form was a sihlouette vaguely outlined by the pinkish neon glow of the motel sign through the window.

“He’s sleeping. _Angels_ aren’t 'spose to sleep.”

“You’re the one who insisted he get some rest,” Sam mumbled around a yawn.

“Yeah, well.. least he’s still breathin’.”

Thankfully. Because even though it was something Dean not only deserved but needed to hear, Castiel’s confession probably would have worsened Dean’s grief had he not survived. Because now it was out in the open, it was real. And Dean would have lost his final chance to speak his heart, to tell Cas how he felt in return—that he felt the _same_ , Sam suspected.

Hell.. he _knew_.

“So..” he tiptoed toward the elephant in the room, “You wanna talk about it?”

Sam’s voice was quiet and measured, though he half-expected Dean to spike the volume as he snapped in frustration of unshared, unbroached feelings. But his big brother did manage to meet him halfway and surprise him, from time to time.

Sam could see a head shaking wearily in the hazy contrast of shadows and light.

“You noticed too, huh?”

He gave a soft chuckle. “I’m neither blind nor deaf, Dean. ‘Course I noticed.”

“Yeah..”

He seemed to be contemlplating something, perhaps playing the moment back in his mind: trying to discern exactly what he was feeling when those words left Castiel’s mouth; when he looked directly at Dean; when Dean couldn’t meet his eye..

“..Love and.. _Love_ , right?”

Sam smiled, “Right,” and he let it sound in his voice.

Dean settled back into thought, arms folded behind his head, eyes drifting over the static patterns cast on the ceiling from outside. Sam left him to it, feeling the call of nature before he could catch another hour of sleep before the half day of driving ahead of them.

Five minutes later he emerged, flicking off the bathroom light and pulling the door half closed behind him.

In those few seconds of illumination, he noticed the second remarkable thing this night: Dean was sat beside Cas on the edge of the bed, hand curled gently over the sleeping Angel’s.

He didn’t say a word, and Dean didn’t flinch from his position as Sam padded back over to his bed and slipped between the covers.

However much Dean would grumble over it, Sam would describe it as a ‘loving moment’. One filled with care and cherisment, the kind of moments he and Castiel often shared through looks alone, and not often enough through physical contact, bold or otherwise.

The image lured a warm, happy feeling into Sam’s chest as he drifted swiftly back to sleep.

Fifty six minutes later he woke to his alarm vibrating under his pillow. It was after sunrise, though the sky was dull and the light that filtered throught the cheap motel curtains was barely enough to see by.

Better they get on the road as soon as possible and leave this place behind, bad memories and all. Or so was decided last night as exhaustion threatened to claim them before they piled into their vehicles and drove away from Wally, from the barn, from Ramiel and a scorched ring of holy fire, from an entourage of dead demons and the memory of an _almost-dead_ Castiel.

Dean was back on the couch, his ageing hunter’s body failing to bend in a way that would allow for comfortable sleep. Sam knew he would be tired either way, but he had a sneaking suspicion Dean had spent most of the past fifty six minutes perched on a mattress, too awake to sleep, or fighting off the need to sleep so as to watch over his Angel, just as he had watched over Dean so many times over the years.

It was Dean’s turn to protect him through his slumber, and marvel at his friend at rest, at peace, dreaming, healing.

With Castiel sleeping soundly and his brother most likely having _just_ slipped into unconsciousness, Sam pulled on his jeans, boots and jacket and snuck out of their room with two goals in mind: _coffee and breakfast_.

The morning was grey and damp and the air was still holding onto that last chill of winter. Hot coffee and a hot breakfast would hopefully lessen the grievance of waking, and soften any grumpiness from the others when he returned.

And it did.

But in Dean’s case it seemed less the magic of double-spiced breakfast burritoes and triple-strength coffee that did away with his morning crotchetiness, and more the simple presence of his best friend, alive and well.

Dean still looked to be dreaming: all moony-eyed staring at a sleep-softened Cas, hair mussed and eyes shining that peaceful pastel blue, lips easing up into a smile as his concentration flitted between the Hunter and his barely-touched food.

The color had returned to his cheeks and, Angel or not, Castiel was enjoying his own breakfast, along with the close company of Dean, obviously, who had yet to allow more than a few feet separate them since waking and helping Cas out of bed, across the carpet, and guiding him down into one of the chairs circling the little kitchen table.

It was déjà vu.

Sam felt an odd, wonderful, rare little peace that grew to settle in the air like a fresh new atmosphere. The coming of Spring and the promise of new life, of rebirth and many beautiful things.

He ate quietly, enjoying their win. He smiled at Dean smiling at Cas who smiled right back at him—gladness and fondness and shyness and coy little secrets that weren’t so secret anymore. Or ever.

When all seemed to be unsaid and done, the three of them trading glances and knowing smiles, Sam took the reigns of driver, keys in hand, as Dean ushered them out the door, chasing after his brother.

“Sammy, no. C’mon—“ 

“—You need sleep, Dean— _real_ sleep.” He obviously wanted to quash that with some adlib remark about Sam’s face or hair or whatever, but he didn’t, because he _wanted_ sleep. “What kind of brother would I be if I let you drive and risk you falling asleep behind the wheel.”

“Wh—? You think I’d _knowingly_ endanger my _Baby_?!”

“Which one?”

Sam didn’t bother trying to hide his smirk. Instead, he let it bloom into a grin as Dean shifted into cranky-mode and side-swiped him with his bag enroute to the car, muttering some warning about _respect_ and _carefulness_ and.. yeah, Sam’s _hair_.

He kind of wished Dean had moved to join Castiel in the backseat, the mental image urging a new smile every time his thoughts wandered: the two of them, slumped beside each other, head on shoulder, cheek on hair, hands comfortably twined between them, on display for any and all to see..

But Dean wasn’t the clingy, romantic type—at least not when others were looking. Dean was content to let Cas curl up in the backseat—until Cas forced him in there himself.

Because Dean may have forgotten about the considerable strength of his Angelic best friend, even when below 100%.

The look on Dean’s face was priceless as he straightened his jacket, Cas slipping in beside him.

His Angel was doing much better, and the tables had once again turned on who was looking after who.

Castiel and Sam traded smirks in the rearview mirror as the engine roared to life, Dean muttering something about _betrayal_ and _lousy family_ and _waffles._

He was edging into non-coherance, and by the time they pulled onto the interstate he was stretched out and dozing along the leather seat, spare jacket bundled under his head for a pillow.

There was space between the two of them, both Dean and Castiel gravitating towards the window and armrest along the door. And perhaps there was too much space to casually initiate contact.

Rain pattered down, hazing the road ahead. It was a peaceful, scenic drive. Mountains turned to forest which eventually to farmland. Dean’s gentle snores were a comfort, as was their known destination: _Kansas. The Bunker. Home_.

They weren’t together nearly enough, and if recent events meant—on top of _other_ things—that Cas would be _with_ them, living and hunting (and _other_ things) together, then maybe it was all worth it. All the pain and the loss, the fear and close calls with Death.

It was worth it. 

Castiel’s truck had been left behind, Dean promising to get it back to Kansas, somehow, else abandon it and find him some new wheels since the thing refused to start in the morning cold.

 _Helps to know your car, Cas_ , Dean had told him. _But if you’re not schooled in the ways of the mechanical beast, then you should at least have a ride that won’t die on you every hundred miles_.

He’d made a passing comment—a _promise_ —to teach Castiel a thing or two when they got back to the bunker, pocketing the keys and letting the warmth of his coffee permeate his then-chilled bones as he swallowed, accompanying Cas back to their room, hand hovering at his back.

The thought of _home_ and _family_ and _a damn good win_ pooled in Sam’s chest like a sun-warmed lake at the turn of seasons.

He could feel change coming—it had already come. It was here, and it was _good_.

It allowed him to feel real hope for the struggle ahead—for the journey, and whatever darkness they would encounter.

There was always something just beyond the horizon, waiting in the shadows, waiting for night to fall.

Usually, with his brother and his best friend beside him, Sam felt they were a force to be reckoned with. That together, they could take on anything.

And now that the _truth_ was known, now that they were something close to _happy_ , now that they were _stronger_ in and of themselves for it, _now_ , like _this_ , in the open presence of _love_ , the three of them could fight and probably _win_.

But more importantly, when the dust was settled and the threat destroyed, they would have each other. Not someone just to kill for, or die for, but to live for. To truly be with.

Change had come, and it was strong, and real, and good. They deserved this. And if the world depended on them, and if happiness was akin to some mighty strength, then that was just a bonus.

 

**Author's Note:**

> ♡  also on tumblr @ [theheartchoice](http://theheartchoice.tumblr.com/post/172523532958/coda-12x12)  ♡
> 
> ~~ **Not gonna lie, I _totally_ have a draft waiting in the wings with the rest of their drive home and what the boys get up to when they reach the bunker.** ~~  ← ok, so I might have had, but those happs are long forgotten now.. *_* 
> 
> Multiple codas for the same ep— _that_ is my ~~bad~~ habit, so there may be more love to come for this ep ~ but it will be different to these happenings. ♡


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